“Women used to be mad about him,” Lady Smith-Evered went on presently, still speaking in husky asides, “but I don’t think he was unfaithful to me, except, perhaps, when he was in India.” She munched her lobster-salad in silence for a few moments. “One can’t blame him for that, poor dear,” she mused at length. “Men will be men—especially in that climate...!”
Muriel turned away in shame, and at once caught the eye of Lord Barthampton, who was one of the party. He was staring at her from the opposite side of the table.
“Lady Muriel,” he said, raising his glass to her, “Your very good health. Cheerio!”
Muriel thanked him, and busied herself in prodding at the food upon her plate which was a full arm’s length away from her.
“Do let me feed you,” said the good-looking youth who was sitting beside her, and who had managed to ram himself closer to the table.
He picked up her plate, and, screwing himself round on his chair, presented a morsel on the end of the fork to her lips. The intimate operation delighted him, and as he repeated it, Muriel observed the excitement in his face. It is a most dangerous thing to feed a woman: it arouses the dormant instincts of the Pliocene Age.
Lady Smith-Evered patted her hand archly. “You mustn’t let him do that,” she whispered. “That’s the way doves begin. And look at Charles Barthampton: he’s madly jealous.”
“Jealous?—Why?” asked Muriel, glancing at Lord Barthampton, who was scowling at her across the table.
“My dear, haven’t you eyes? Can’t you see that he is making a dead set at you?”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Muriel, a little crossly. “I’ve only met him once or twice, and this evening I’ve had half a dance with him.”